Hors d'Age
by augustadacica
Summary: Liberation can sometimes be longer in the making than we'd wish on ourselves. Introspective piece, written to the prompt, 'Snape/Lily. A glass of brandy. Preferably in winter.'


Almost stifled by the oppressive surrounding darkness, the crackling fire cast uncompromisingly dramatic chases of light and shadow across the room.

Slowly rasping out wheezes that could be passed for breaths, an almost slumped Severus Snape stared lazily into flames that provided him with little warmth. As he allowed one index finger to absently stroke the thick scar tissue covering what remained of his larynx, Snape gave his thoughts free rein to wander. What was it that had kept him coming here, of all places, now as the previous four years? What must have surely been a million muddled things clamoured to the fore of his thoughts at once, striving to be that reason. Curling his lips bitterly, he scoffed and dismissed them all. He _knew _he wasn't here for the impromptu introspection.

With barely a moment's pause, he turned his eyes to the bottle of aged – better, _hors d'age_ – brandy at his right. The one Christmas present he'd ever got from Dumbledore... presumably the one time he'd managed to gain the Headmaster's favour in some arbitrarily defined manner. He'd brought this bottle along every time, and likewise failed to open it every year. Scowl deepening – _Fifth time's the charm, old man _– Snape tapped the bottle with his wand, then conjured himself a snifter and poured a generous measure.

Unbidden, his thoughts started stirring again. It was about that time, and his mind knew the ritual better than his body did. As ever, the ambient chill and the dull, slow rush of the flames provided the perfect backdrop to the memories aiming to drown him. Warm lights catching aged brandy became flashes of thick, burnt auburn; tinkling, delighted laughter accompanied the gusts of wind outside; blinking no longer imprinted the patterns of dancing shadows in darkness, giving instead way to blazing, vivid green surrounded by thick lashes and a smattering of freckles, then to a pale, oval face with delicate features and supple, reddish-pink lips...

Soon, Severus gave up the pretence and, fumbling slightly inside his robes, pulled out a thick, well-wrapped bundle of papers. Unravelling it with care, he let his eyes travel slowly over the contents. Something in his blood stirred and bubbled to a low simmer. Expectation hung thick in the air; this year, something was different. As with all other infinitesimal changes he'd brought to the ritual tonight, Snape paid it no mind; as he'd done with every change, every_thing _for the past nine months now, he'd let this, too, run its course.

_Dear Sev,_ – Snape couldn't tell if he was reading or merely tracing with his gaze an amalgam of already too familiar letters, words, phrases… _Dear Sev, _– his eyes were fixed on the scribbles adorning the page, but his mind kept reliving years of tumult and pain and doubt, of wishes and what-ifs and memories. Slowly, reactionary to the cavalcade of images assaulting him, this great unknown that had been germinating for five years – a half decade since he'd woken, broken but alive, after another half-decade of convalescence that had chiefly kept him trapped inside his own head – finally took form and started to solidify. It was time.

In the dark, dingy room, the firelight snapped, sizzled and dimmed. Snape moved his wand to rekindle it almost automatically, but something in his line of sight held him before his thoughts and motions formed the spell. What if, instead – well, it _would _be only fitting… With a smirk equal parts wicked and pained, Snape pointed his wand slightly to the right and upended Dumbledore's precious, priceless brandy over the dwindling flames. The bright, orange roar of the rekindled fire gave chase to the shadowed, insidious whispers of old ghosts. There was that feeling again: it was time.

Releasing a heaving sigh, Snape stood slowly; hazily, almost as if he was watching himself from outside his body, he held his left hand out and dropped the entirety of that thick bundle into the fire. After a moment's pause, he poured the contents of the untouched snifter of brandy over the flames as well, then turned his back and walked out. Feeling as though something had ripped loose inside of him and liberated his always heavy heart, he left the Shrieking Shack – Hogwarts – his past – behind with a hoarse, barely-there murmur. "Happy New Year."


End file.
